


Yes, It Looks Like We Made It to the End

by XioNin



Series: Moments (Skam France) [1]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Eliott POV, Lucille POV, M/M, Missing Scene, bienvenue à la douleur, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XioNin/pseuds/XioNin
Summary: Someone on Tumblr asked for the Eliott & Lucille break-up scene. The title is taken from a song by Blur called 'To The End'. The second part is Lucille's POV at the now-infamous party in episode five. Bienvenue à la douleur, mes mecs.





	1. This Is It

His instinct is to comfort her, so Eliott sits on his hands. His wrists complain from the angle of the twist and the weight of his body, but he swallows the discomfort like a communion wafer. It is part of his absolution, he’s decided. Part of his penance.

Lucille, for her few faults, is still Lucille. His Luce. She didn’t ask for any of this. Doesn’t deserve to be set aside, especially not for another.

Eliott doesn’t mention him, the one who’d caught his eye, and then his ear, and possibly now his heart. Undoubtedly.

He knows that she knows, Lucille’s more astute than anyone Eliott’s ever met. And she knows him better than possibly anyone, yet she doesn’t know him at all. She doesn’t understand Eliott’s desire to see everything, know everything, experience everything. She thinks his hunger for knowledge is a symptom, that his idea of what it means to be alive is delusional. She views him through the warped lens of who she thinks he is when he isn’t himself, not realizing that it _is_ him. All Eliott. All the time.

Which is one reason why this has to end. Finally. They’re more than friends and less than lovers, suspended in a limbo between caution and concern, fondness, familiarity, and fecklessness. It’s no way to love.

Perhaps if Eliott could explain how bright he feels. How Lucas has infused his chest with a joy so light he feels as if he might float away. How being with him makes Eliott unafraid to feel, unafraid to experience, unafraid to accept every bit of himself.

“You realize this won’t last,” she says, firm in her opinion of Eliott’s inability to know himself. “It never does.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Of course, I do.” Her mouth pinches in the corners and Eliott knows she’s biting back the words she really wants to say. She sighs. “Last year-“

“Was last year. It has nothing to do with this.”

“Eliott.” She states his name and it’s a life sentence.

Lucille is the one who reaches out. She places a gentle hand on his bouncing knee and Eliott feels every ounce of pity and condescension it contains. Her thumb brushes back and forth along his denim-clad joint and Eliott stills.

He doesn’t want to hear her words, because they always makes sense. She always makes sense and he fucking _hates_ it. Hates her, in this moment, because a part of him knows she’s probably right.

 _Non, non, non, non, non_. Not this time.

“He’s young,” she says, taking an approach Eliott had actually expected.

“You act like we’re so old,” he tries to lift the weight that has settled over their conversation.

Lucille offers him a sad smile. “These few years can make a big difference. And you… You’ve been through more than most, even for our age.”

Eliott meets her eyes then, almost recoiling from what he sees in them. Himself as she sees him. Weak, sick, imperfect, lost.

It’s such a stark contrast to the way he sees himself reflected in Lucas. Eliott closes his eyes and draws on the memory of that last kiss before Lucas had fallen asleep in his arms, so warm and perfect. So safe and free of worry, or judgement, or strife.

He’s not stupid, Eliott knows that it won’t always be like that, but it was just so… Real.

“What are you going to tell him?” Lucille’s voice snaps him back to the present.

He looks at her and shrugs. “I haven’t decided.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “When are you going to tell him?”

Eliott has to stand and put some space between them. “Can we not?”

Lucille stands to face him. “ _We_ aren’t. _You_ are. You’re doing this, Eliott. To me, to poor little Lucas.”

His name sounds trite coming from her mouth. Eliott wants to tell her never to say it again, but that’s childish.

“Lucas isn’t a child,” he says instead.

“Neither are you,” she retorts. “So, stop acting like one. You know perfectly well what’s going on here. We’ve been through this before. _I’ve_ been through this with you before, and I’m tired, Eliott. I’m so tired.”

“Then why fight me? Why stay when you’re so exhausted. You think I need you?”

“You need someone,” Lucille says, the fight leaking from her voice. “May as well be me.”

And, fuck. Eliott reels back from her, stumbling until his legs hit the sofa. He falls into it, defeated. Lucille sinks down next to him and takes both of his hands in hers. They’re warm and soft, but too delicate. Too much the wrong hands.

He can’t help but to compare her to Lucas, Lucas who’d given him a moment under the bridge that he’d only had in his dreams. Lucas who had reached for him, stepped into his world without knowing what it meant. Lucas who had pulled him out of the shadows and into the light.

Eliott had to be brave, had to trust that what he felt – what he saw in Lucas – was real.

“Don’t do this, Elly,” Lucille’s voice holds more than a hint of pleading. “Not again.”

Eliott meets her gaze, his own watery. “I’m so sorry, Luce.”

He watches her features harden. When she snatches her hands from his, her nail leaves a scratch on the back of his hand. It stings and Eliott presses a finger into it. He wants the pain, wants to feel every moment of this and sear it into his brain.

Lucille gets up and gathers her things. Eliott stands, shoving his hands into his pockets, and watches her in silence.

“When this goes south, and it will, don’t worry. I’ll be there to pick you up.”

Her lack of faith in him hurts more than anything else.

“Are we still friends, then?”

Lucille stops and turns to him, confused. “Friends? No.”

Eliott curses under his breath.

“I didn’t say that to be cruel or petty, Elly,” Lucille says matter-of-factly. “We’ve been here before. We’ll probably be here again. It’s…who we are. We’re us.”

And _non_ , Eliott thinks to himself. We’re not.

 


	2. Residual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucille was right. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing this from the grave. I never thought another SKAM could crush me, but David and Niels have succeeded. So, here we are.
> 
> I thought I'd write the final chapter of this particular moment from Lucille's POV.
> 
> Bienvenue à la douleur...

Lucille wants to give herself credit for not saying _I told you so_. Mostly, though, she’s just glad it’s over and that Eliott is back. That things are normal again.

Only… They’re not.

His smile is a little too broad, his focus a little too intense, his kisses too fervent and eager. It hasn’t been this way with them, not for a long time anyway. Years, maybe. But Lucille cares about him, loves him, and knows what he needs better than he ever could.

That boy, Lucas, he isn’t it. He can’t be.

Eliott doesn’t know his own mind and so he doesn’t recognize the patterns.

To be fair, Lucille has the benefit of hindsight. It had taken the train wreck of their third year at school for her to fit the puzzle pieces together. She’d been terrified, then horrified, then flooded with guilt for not knowing, for not seeing the signs.

Eliott has always been larger-than-life, it's one of the things Lucille finds most endearing about him. His intensity, he willingness to suspend disbelief and embrace the impossible. She puts up with his antics because she knows, somewhere underneath the damaged dreamer, is a brilliance that’s rare. It just needs…direction, and she’s the one to guide him.

The party is lame. Everyone here is too young, and Lucille can think of a million places she’d rather be. Again, Eliott seems too happy for it to be genuine, but she tells herself he’s just trying to shake off whatever melancholy had taken hold of him in the last few days.

She keeps a close eye on him, glad when he turns down a beer, thrilled when he waves away an offered joint. He’s being smart, getting things back on track.

“Kitten!” He calls, nuzzling into her neck as she leans against a door frame. “Are you having fun?”

“Not really,” Lucille replies, pressing against the wall as a couple of drunk seventeen-year-olds stumble by them. “Can we leave now?”

If Eliott’s face falls, it’s only for a second. Short enough that Lucille feels comfortable ignoring it. He grabs her hand and guides her toward the exit.

They slip past a group of girls to grab her jacket from a pile on the dining room table, and Lucille hears Chloe’s voice.

“…fucking nerve to come here after everything!” She’s agitated, and Lucille slows her search, torn between getting out of the kiddie pool and checking in on her little friend.

“Are you sure he’s gay, though?” another girl asks. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to be with you.”

“Fuck off, Maria," Chloe spits. "You’re just jealous.”

Lucille wrinkles her nose in distaste. These people are so damn young, airing their dirty laundry like its reality TV. She stumbles after Eliott, relieved when they emerge from the back of the house and into the crisp, winter air.

Eliott stops and pulls her coat tight around her body, protective as always. Lucille searches his face but all she sees is the effort. His effort to pretend all is well. For her.

He kisses her, smiling into it. He’s trying so hard and she loves him for it.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

He kisses her again, and Chloe can taste it now. His absence. The loss hits her like a freight train, stealing her breath.

“Let’s go, baby.” Eliott takes her hand as if it’s made of spun glass and turns to go.

His smile is wrong, his touch is wrong, it’s all so wrong.

Lucille follows anyway and hopes she can steer them right again. They’re together, at least. As it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Shall I keep going, mes mecs?


End file.
